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Lone cypress trees cling to cliffs where soil barely exists
Paper lanterns sway on strings above streets that have gone dark
Salt crusted shorelines mark where tidal waters used to reach
Old rail lines disappear into forests that reclaimed the land
Thin sheets of ice form overnight on still forest puddles
Abandoned orchards bear fruit no one comes to harvest
Low hanging branches brush the roofs of houses built too close
Moss covered gravestones lean at angles time has decided
Dust motes drift through shafts of light in rooms left undisturbed
Worn stone steps descend into cellars holding nothing but cool air
